


Flavors of Anger

by leathansparrow



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Angry Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:50:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leathansparrow/pseuds/leathansparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kanda is always some kind of angry. Allen is learning to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flavors of Anger

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the following Spring Kink prompt: _D.Gray-Man, Allen/Kanda: angry sex – "One day when their argument got overheated, Kanda just snapped."_

So far as Allen can tell, Kanda is always some sort of angry. There are tones to it. Sometimes he’s frustrated. Lavi prods at him just to get him to snap like that, to see him lose his cool and honestly Allen thinks that’s about the only time he ever really sees Kanda angry in the conventional sense. There are other kinds too: there’s his glowering irritation in the morning, before he’s had his tea, all sullen and silent and impossible. There’s the silent judgment in his eyes when Allen’s done something, jumped into a fight he shouldn’t have, acted some way Kanda considers foolish.

(Their opinions on just what is considered ‘foolish’ differ widely, Allen knows. Even after them, when Kanda’s opinions aren’t making the hairs on Allen’s neck stand up or having him hissing frustrated explanations back.)

There’s irate: see Komui and his experiments, or the last time Bookman stole his hair tie. There’s the quick snap of his eyes and a leveled threat for something small. There are more threats for something big. There’s dismissive: quiet and silent and Allen almost doesn’t realize it is anger driving it when Kanda tells him he’s not going to have his back, if all he’s going to do is get himself killed. 

There’s disappointed. Every time someone dies, exorcist, finder, civilian, it’s as if Kanda expected more of them. As if he’s angry at them for the cards they’ve been dealt. As if it’s their fault he couldn’t save them. It comes out when someone’s injured too, just not as strong, and Allen wonders if that disappointment isn’t really in himself. 

He knows that feeling. Feels it every day. He just doesn’t cope by yelling. 

(Most of the time.) 

At first Allen thinks that Kanda is just an ass. He is an ass; he still thinks that. Nothing’s really changed. The difference is that Allen knows why Kanda’s such an ass. 

And Allen knows why he’s the only person he seems to know that can flush out all of Kanda’s types of angry all at once. Like right now, when Kanda has him backed up to a wall, face flushed, eyes sharp and screaming obscenities at him. Frustrated, disappointed, all “I’m not your damn babysitter bean sprout” this and “If you fucking get yourself killed don’t drag the rest of us along with you,” that and Allen just wants to shut him up. 

Shut him up for just one second so he can clear his dizzy head. 

He’s dizzy, that’s why he does it, he thinks. Well, that’s the excuse he’ll use later, because Mana never would have done it and he does anyway, the fire and sass of his childhood slipping out beneath his control in a fistful of Kanda’s loose hair and a sharp nip to his pale lips, before Allen kisses him hard. Kanda freezes, and Allen gets that moment of silence he wanted. 

Then he’s pinned back against that wall, Kanda’s knee between his legs, shoulder against his arm, hand pinning his wrist to the stone as Kanda pulls it free of his hair. Allen’s not sure what has just happened, only that his head isn’t any clearer and a moan slips from between their pressed lips before he can stop it. Kanda rears back, eyes wide, darker than Allen’s ever seen them. “The fuck was that, beansprout?” he demands.

“The fuck was you kissing me back?” Allen responds. They’ve far bypassed civility. They did that hours, days, maybe even years ago. 

Kanda doesn’t respond. He kisses Allen again, presses him so tight to the brick that Allen can feel the grains of it against his skull. He could push Kanda off if he chose. Kanda’s formidable, yes, but Allen’s arm is stronger. He doesn’t want to, he finds. He likes this bit of Kanda’s anger. It’s new. Well, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s been building all along, but it’s warm and desperate and Allen thinks that maybe he understands it just a little better than Kanda’s evasive yelling. 

The adrenaline rush of a fight, the fear of losing a comrade, the frustration of knowing there’s nothing they could have done if they did, their own personal tempers clashing, it’s all running between lips and teeth and Kanda’s fingers pulling at the buttons of his coat and Allen’s scraping at his belt. “We’re in an alley,” Allen snarls against Kanda’s mouth. 

“Don’t care,” Kanda growls back. 

Allen doesn’t really either. Everyone around them is dead for miles. It’s not like anyone will see. He’s got his hand down Kanda’s trousers and Kanda bowing his back, groaning against his mouth. Kanda’s fingers scratch against the brick. His arm wraps around Allen’s waist and hitches him closer, so Allen’s riding his hip and it’s awkward and hot and Allen’s pretty sure the dizziness is all the heat of their cocks rubbing through wool and reinforced leather. 

Kanda fumbles at Allen’s pants. Allen’s got clever fingers. Always has. He has to, learning to compensate for the left one, so no one would see. He pushes his own trousers down his hips and tucks one hand down the back of Kanda’s, palming his ass, pressing him closer. Kanda drops his head to Allen’s neck, mouths through the stiffened collar. Allen pulls Kanda’s cock free and wraps the rough, red flesh of his left hand around them both. Kanda’s knees shake. Allen’s do too. The alley is damp and cold and he can barely tell, with Kanda pressed up warm against him. 

It’s fast and dirty and the rush of Kanda’s frustration, Allen’s own temper, is sucked between them in grunts and groans and the scrape of flesh against flesh. Allen twists his hand against them. It’s rough and dry and almost hurts, but the way Kanda’s leaning into him, breath hot against his throat, fingers tight against his arm, it’s fine. 

It’s better than fine, best fight they’ve had. The thought crosses Allen’s mind that they should do this again sometime, when they’re not in a damp, blood-stained alley and pissed at each other.

That thought is gone a moment later. He cries out into Kanda’s mouth, comes between them, fist tightening around them. Kanda thrusts into the curl of his hand fast, hard and shudders, silent. He buries his face in Allen’s shoulder, thighs shaking but he’s still standing. “This isn’t over beansprout.”

Allen laughs through his gasps. He’s tempted to say something snide, but he can’t quite think of it. Too dizzy, too hot, too flushed, with Kanda’s body slumped against him and his hand sticky between them. So “fine,” he says instead. Kanda snorts.

For once he doesn’t want to fight. And Allen’s okay with that.


End file.
